


Homecoming

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Baze Adores Him, Chirrut is a Troll, M/M, Post-Rogue One, Pre-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: Before Scarif, they were happy.After Scarif...





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've never written for this pairing beyond a tiny drabble a couple days after seeing the movie, and this fic is just me expanding on that. I apologise in advance if I'm misreading the characters, but it honestly just tickles me do much to see Baze rolling his eyes at Chirrut being a troll, even as he adores him for it too. Dammit. They are so precious.

“You’ve been gone a long time.”

Had the comment come from anyone else, Baze might have taken it as an invitation to a skirmish. But in this, he could only sigh, turning with an exasperation that still could not hide the fact he’d been looking for this man all along. “No longer than I said I’d be,” he replied, unable to keep the gruff edge from his words; with arms folded, the other man only blew out a sharp breath of his own.

“It _felt_ longer.”

“Chirrut.” The affection could not help but bleed through, and he let it; his heart skipped a beat even as he stepped closer, in a movement he’d only been making his entire life. “Are you trying to admit you missed me?”

He opened his arms, expansive in surrender. “Why admit it, when it seems you already know?”

It struck him hard: the urge to move forward, to pull Chirrut into rough embrace, to feel the slim hardness of the other body against his own. “I don’t have to be here,” he said instead, inclined his head towards the path that wended back through the complex to the churning streets of the city beyond. “I do have other things I could do.”

A laugh broke free, as clear and bright as the windchimes lining the arcade. “Of course you don’t!” Chirrut then sidled close, one eyebrow raised high. “And aren’t you hungry?”

“Are you going to make something for me, then?” Chirrut had always been a fair enough cook – artefact of a life lived in such communal circumstances – but Baze could not resist the light urge to needle him. “Because I did just come through the market, and it smells delicious down there. I might go back.”

“No, no, you haven’t worked up appetite enough for that yet.” Chirrut pivoted on one booted heel, angled himself resolutely away. “Come, Baze! I’m sure I can find something for you to do!”

Baze watched, at first – and so quickly did Chirrut disappear into the deeper corridors of the temple. But Baze could follow, and easily enough at that; for all he had not himself lived here in many a year, he could walk these flagstones blindfolded. Yet he could also choose now to walk away, to come back later: when he’d had opportunity enough to rest, to bathe, to eat and to sleep and to find himself again after this most recent job.

It would seem the better option. Chirrut seemed in a fey mood, even by his standards; in his own exhaustion, Baze would be worn out quickly by his very presence. But it was that same presence that had drawn him here now, but moments after returning to Jedha city. And so, he could not turn away. Instead he moved through the temple, following something between instinct and the distant skip of Chirrut’s quick step. It was easier still to ignore the eyes that watched his every movement. He remained welcome enough, for all he was no longer one of their own, and had not been in many years.

But Chirrut had always resided at the heart of the temple. And even when Baze had left the Guardians of the Whills, he had never strayed far from Chirrut himself.

Long before they reached the end of their path, Baze knew where they were going. Yet, even as he stepped into one of the great training courtyards, he barely smothered a groan. “Chirrut, _no_.”

But already he stood at its centre, tiles radiating in expanding pattern around his slim form as he shed his outer robe, leaving only the tunic and trousers beneath. “You can’t always rely on a big gun,” he said, perfectly cheerful; Baze pursed his lips.

“Why not?” Folding his arms across his chest, he added with even truth, “ _You_ do.”

He paused. “Baze.” His lips curved around something like a smile. “You _owe_ me.”

Much as he knew Chirrut built a trap for him, Baze walked willingly into it. “For what?”

“You’re _late_.” One hand extended, the fingers long and callused and still. “I’ve been waiting all this time. For you.”

Baze rolled his eyes. Chirrut only remained still, that faint smile as yet upon his open features. In the end, it took him somewhat longer to shed his own heavier outerwear, even given the bandoliers and the repeater cannon had been left at the entrance to the temple. The Whills did not shun weapons. But they only invited their own within their walls.

The chill of the midday air bit through the lighter fabrics, without the heavy boiler suit to hold his body heat close to his skin. Still, Baze opened his arms, tossed one bound tail of hair back over his shoulder.

“Am I suitable enough for you now?”

For a moment, Chirrut said nothing at all. But even as Baze frowned, opening his mouth to encourage him back to the conversation, Chirrut laughed, bright and startled. “Oh, _Baze_.” And his voice lowered, curling and calming and utterly content. “I’ll have you whatever way I can get you.”

And then, of course, he struck – Chirrut had never been one to give up a good opening. But Baze flowed to one side, just out of Chirrut’s teasing reach. He had, after all, never forgotten his training, for all he did not use it in the same way in his current occupation. But even with such remembrance guiding each block and every strike, Chirrut always had been too quick for him. Even now he remained always a step ahead, moving just a little quicker, a little lighter. As children, Baze had always been afraid Chirrut would leave him behind.

But he had always stopped. To wait, just long enough for his friend to catch him up, and begin the game anew.

And this game, today, ended with Baze on his back, staring at the sky: it stretched above him in clear arc, clear and chill, the heat of the system’s star not enough to reach so far. It gifted them only light instead. And then even that was gone, a shadow falling over him while wearing a sharp and teasing grin.

“Come on, Baze – I’m beating you, and _I’m_ blind.”

The motion came thoughtless, too quick: the instincts of an assassin. One hand twitched downward, slipped into hidden pocket to withdraw a blaster very much smaller than his preferred weapon. Even as he levelled it at Chirrut’s face, the man did not move.

“Honestly, Baze.” And now he sighed, loud and laughing. “You know that’s not the kind of loaded gun I like you pointing in my direction.”

“ _Chirrut_!”

Even as his aim wavered, the safety still clicked firmly on, Baze did not rise. He had little enough choice in the matter; Chirrut had already decided to straddle his hips, carefully taking the gun into his hands. Quick fingers moved overs its lines, drinking it in from all angles: the cool alusteel, the leather-bound grip, the small dangerous aperture at its head. And then, its deactivation confirmed, Chirrut tossed it aside. Baze still winced at the clatter of its landing, though Chirrut’s bright eyes remained fixed upon him alone. Then he was leaning close, leaning down.

“Chirrut.” It was not a question. It even held the faint underhum of panic. “What are you _doing_.”

He breathed out this laughter, low and soft. “Well, we must celebrate your homecoming _somehow_.”

The lips pressed then to his, soft and knowing and so very _warm_ , compared to the frigid air of Jedha. Somewhere, in the daze of his thoughts, Baze could hear the sound of another’s laughter, distant and lovely. Their brief spar had drawn an audience, it seemed. But it did not matter. They had been together what felt their lives entire; even with Baze having left the order of the Whills, those who remained knew he would never go far from their borders. Not when Chirrut remained willingly within.

And when Chirrut drew away, Baze shook his head – just a little, just enough. “This is hardly appropriate,” he breathed, against his lips. To his surprise Chirrut leaned back, began to rise, so very light upon his quick feet. Bright fear flared through him then: it seemed as though he would disappear into the shadows, leaping ahead and away, as he always had.

But Chirrut remained at his side, silent and still. And one hand extended, his smile knowing kept promise.

“Come with me.”

The fingers closed tight around his own, pulled him to his feet; his strength had always been something to surprise those who did not know him. But Baze knew Chirrut. And so, it was almost too easy to let Chirrut lead him now, through the worn and well-known corridors of the temple.

And Chirrut did not let him go even as they drew close to his own monk’s cell. While small and sparse, it remained entirely his own: both age and experience had granted him that. And it seemed impossible, but Chirrut must have _known_ ; a bowl of lightly steaming water sat on the low table at his bedside, and he reached for towel and the sweet-scented soap milled by the acolytes that sat at its side. Baze, in turn, already moved to sit on the bed, taken hard by a sudden strike of fatigue. He had not slept the length of the transport back to Jedha City, and Chirrut’s insistence on sparring upon his immediate return had not helped matters in the slightest.

But Chirrut’s other hand closed around his forearm, firm and warning. “Take off your clothes,” he said, perfectly pleasant, for he expected only to be obeyed. Baze had heard him use a similar tone with the youngest initiates of the temple. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, for all Chirrut would not see it. And yet somehow Baze felt he had, when Chirrut withdrew his hand only to pat him lightly there instead.

“Go on,” he said, and his lips took on a dangerous curve. “I’ll help.”

A frisson skipped over his skin at the words, for all it had not even been bared yet. But the chill of Jedha would not be so easily chased away. Even the small cheerfulness of the fire stoked in Chirrut’s hearth meant little enough as Baze began to shed each and every layer. But he did not complain. He hardly could, with Chirrut before him: watchful with his bright blue eyes, held his silence, peaceful and patient. Only when Baze paused, down to his underclothes, did he let a chuckle escape.

“Those, too.” The grin twitched wider yet. “Why are you suddenly so shy? Am I really staring too much?”

“Chirrut,” and it was rough, an unspoken demand. Chirrut rose without words, the dampened towel light in his fingers. First he moved it in lazy sweep, beginning at the centre of his throat, where the pulse beat quick; a moment later and it ghosted the length of his collarbone, gentling the rise of his shoulder joint. Then it shifted, sliding down his arm in slow and tender curve. And at his hand, there he stopped; Chirrut’s own fingers laced into his, holding tight, palms pressed together. His face inclined, and Baze turned to meet it, to see where Chirrut’s eyes had fixed upon his, knowing and endless.

“Baze,” he said, very quiet. “I want you naked.”

The shiver rocked him to his very bones. “That tongue of yours is a wicked thing.”

Of course he flicked it out, wetting his lips even as they smiled deeper still. “And you do love it so.”

It ended up almost clumsy, the meeting of their lips. But Chirrut allowed it, perhaps even revelled in it; Baze could feel his smile, taste its bright flavour, like sunlight and sweet spice. But the hands on his chest gentled him backwards, and down.

“Baze,” he said, and he knew he would die for that voice. At this very moment Baze would get down on his knees and offer his throat to the knife, willing and welcoming of the end, if it were at Chirrut’s word. But even as he watched, Chirrut’s lips moved to faint frown, matching the sudden furrow of his brow. Baze’s own spine stiffened with the sense he’d done something wrong, and then Chirrut’s hands were upon him again, warm and gentling the sudden strangeness away.

“Must I do everything myself?” he whispered, fingers hooking in the waistband, the calluses slow gentle drag over the bared skin of abdomen and hip. Baze only smiled, turned his head to breathe deep of Chirrut’s scent.

“But you do it so _well_.”

A light chuckle was all he allowed himself, in that pause of moments. But then Chirrut moved to working, again, swift and efficient; his hands echoed the path of his eyes, taking in everything they could not. It left him alive and aching, even as those clever fingers ignored the root of Baze’s desire.

Only when he had been cleaned to Chirrut’s exacting standards did he push Baze back down upon the neat pallet. The roughspun coverlet shifted beneath his buttocks, the itch against skin nowhere near as uncomfortable as the pulse of blood and want in his groin. But he held his peace, allowed Chirrut to arrange him to his liking. And he remained silent as Chirrut stepped back, head tilted as if in critical assessment. Then, he nodded: everything just so. Just the way Chirrut wanted it.

Only then did his hands rise again, this time moving over his own clothing. The actions came deft, quick; Chirrut folded away the outer robes with neat care, before setting the inner layers aside for later laundering. Baze’s thoat turned very dry. Somehow, he always forgot. What lay before him now was a sight he had seen a thousand times and far more again, and yet, it always stole his breath and all logical thought: the smooth sleekness of him, the corded muscle drawn taut over the slim frame beneath. Baze found himself reaching out, even as Chirrut’s hand flicked out and lightly rapped over his knuckles.

“No.” He pushed his hand back through the rough stubble of his own dark hair, the familiar curve of his skull. “You can wait,” he added, even as he tilted one hip, dragging Baze’s gaze along the slim line and curve. “As you made _me_ wait.”

“ _Chirrut_.”

He only smiled, just out of reach as he took up again the wetted towel, the same one that had already travelled the length of Baze’s own body. Rinsed and wrung out, Chirrut began, again; the maddening scent of the soap had Baze closing his eyes, teeth digging deep into his lower lip. It was used by the whole temple, and yet on Chirrut’s skin, it became something entirely different. Something comforting, drawing him inward, unique and almost quite extraordinary. But even as his hands twitched upon his own bare thighs, his lips and throat dry and longing, Baze could only watch as Chirrut cleaned himself, fastidious and easy.

“I might die before you are finished,” he said, rough and hoarse as sand over skin. “How would you feel, then?”

Chirrut only rolled his eyes. “As if you would go anywhere without me.”

“I just did!”

“No.” The towel dropped into the bowl with a distinct splash, and Chirrut stalked close. “You didn’t.” Now he seated himself on Baze’s thighs, knees pressed against his hips, his groin tantalisingly close. But he did not shift closer. He allowed instead Chirrut to cradle his face between his palms, pressing their foreheads together.

And he sighed, his smile something strange, something sad. “Baze,” he whispered. “You are always with me.”

“Chirrut—”

But Chirrut rolled his hips, and at last: the brush of their cocks, velvet-smooth skin and hard heated flesh. Baze gasped, head thrown backward, breath caught and choking in his exposed throat. He knew without looking the smug expression that would no doubt be upon Chirrut’s face.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the way Chirrut’s hand now moved with deft purpose. Baze didn’t know where the oil had come from. He didn’t care enough to ask, not with Chirrut’s callused, clever fingers already taking them both in hand. And he started an easy shifting rhythm, one easily matched by the low thrust of Baze from below. Without thought he buried his head in the space between jaw and shoulder, turned his cheek to breathe deep of the dampness of his soap-scented skin, finding even there the faint taste of salt. Baze gave himself over to sensation. Gave himself entirely to Chirrut.

His free hand rose, tangled in Baze’s hair. It should have been painful. Instead it was just an anchor, reminder of what rose and fell like the unknown sea above him. Climax took him first, hard and sudden and blazing bright; Chirrut’s hand turned gentle, his fingers coaxing him through something that could not decide between pain and pleasure. Only when his breaths calmed, his trembling subsiding, did Chirrut lean back. His opened hand pressed along the line of his face, even as the other still worked over where they still touched together.

“Baze?”

But he could only stare, silent, as those quick fingers moved still over skin too sensitive and not yet soft. Smiling, faintly, Chirrut let them both go. And his right hand moved upward as his tongue flicking out, wrapping first around one long finger, and then the spend that clung to it.

Even as Baze groaned, his hands clutching bruise-tight at his slim waist, Chirrut laughed. “Are you just going to go on alone?” he asked, one eyebrow high. “Or will you be a gentleman, and see me home, too?”

With a growl, Baze pushed him down, deep into even his simple monk’s bed. His mouth crushed down over Chirrut’s lips, catching that silver tongue, swallowing his laughter. His own hand had thrust between them, rough and grasping. Chirrut needed but a moment, and then: the heat spilled over, and his head thrust back, spine arching from the bed. Baze rose just enough to let him follow. Then he let go, his arms as exhausted as every other inch of his body. Still he collected Chirrut close, held him near in the circle of his arms. They would have to rise, soon enough; it was but early afternoon, and the temple would not surrender Chirrut to him for long. And the water would be cold, now. But Chirrut, so bright and so quick, lay quiescent: so warm and so easy, and close enough to share even their heartbeat.

“Welcome home, Baze,” he said, but the ghost of a whisper. And Baze closed his eyes, breathed deep the scent of him, familiar and simple. They could rest a moment. Just a moment more, and then: they could back to real life. But he would have this, now. He would keep this for as long as he could.

And in this moment, now felt very much like forever.

 

*****

 

Baze has known Chirrut’s fighting style his whole life. He had been taught the same basic forms and katas himself, even if he had not chosen in the end to take any of it for his own. He has instead watched Chirrut change and develop and make of their teachings something quite his own. And for all Chirrut had understood implicitly that Baze prefers the weight and heft of a customised blaster on his back and in his hands, Chirrut kept at it for years ever after: always trying to teach it to him, to show him what it truly is. Sometimes he wonders why Chirrut bothered. They both know it has always been as much a part of him as it is of Chirrut himself.

But that style is not what he sees when Chirrut takes his stance in what is their reality now. He blinks back salt and soot, his chest on fire as he breathes in ionised air, but he cannot look away. For Chirrut does not approach this as a warrior: anticipating every movement, every blow, every dodge and duck he might need to make, to preserve himself for what is still yet to come.

Chirrut instead gives himself over to the Force – and he walks into enemy fire not with his staff to offensive strike, or his bowcaster drawn and loaded. His centre of gravity is not low, his feet not planted and his knees not bent. His spine is straight and his head is held high, and he looks nowhere else but forward as he does what can only be impossible.

But it is not. The firefight parts around him upon unseen currents, and Chirrut pays none of it any heed. His staff he holds before him, straight and silent, his every step sure and certain.

It is wrong. It is impossible. But Chirrut has never taken well to being told what he cannot do. And so: he does it. He pulls the lever and it is done. But then, he is done, too.

Baze doesn’t remember screaming for him. He supposes he wouldn’t have heard it, anyway. His thoughts are violent and overbright and pounding at the cradle of his skull from all sides; his heart is a pulsing bleeding ache as it hits, searing and desperate: the _loss_ of him. The one person he never thought would be gone. Chirrut is leaving him, even as Baze goes first to him and then to his knees. But even as his hands move over him, drawing him close, Chirrut smiles, and lets go.

“I am one with the Force,” Baze chokes out in the wake of it, bitter and bright, “and the Force is with me.”

And he says it, over and over, even as he closes his eyes. Chirrut has always held the deepest belief in the Force, for all Baze had never found that same serenity. But Chirrut had never stopped trying to show it to him: to call him back to the place that had birthed the both of them.

Even at the very moment of his passing, Chirrut had called upon the Force – had in turn held it out to Baze as if it could be a lifeline. But that Force has taken Chirrut from him. And Baze closes his eyes, so very tight, a keening cry twisting and turning around his aching heart. It was that same belief that had taken them both from Jedha: Chirrut, chasing dreams in a way that beggared disbelief. He’d never before been beyond the borders of the city. But he had left, for this. Had refused to go down with Jedha even as he had mourned, through Baze’s eyes, the ruin of the only home he had ever known.

Baze opens his eyes, but sees nothing more than the burst of bright light, the faint coloured shadows of a war tangling all that remains of them both. The air tastes burnt; there’s salt underneath it, constant and pervasive, and so very alien to them both. Jedha had been cold, and what water there was often froze, snow in a crimson desert. This place, with its heat and water and clear blue of both sky and sea: it is nothing if not utterly alien. Chirrut has died, and it has happened so very far from home.

As he whispers the words, again – Chirrut’s words – Baze can taste blood in his mouth. It might be his own, or it could be that of a thousand others; he is surrounded on all sides by the sound of battle still raging onward, for all he has become the calm eye of this storm. He doesn’t turn to it. Not just yet. There is no coming back, not from this. But then, when he thinks of it, even though it had been his eyes opened and staring, Chirrut had seen it first. Chirrut had asked, and Baze had given him the truth: Jedha city is gone. Chirrut had known it from the start. Their home is gone. There has never been anything for them to go back to.

But there is still the Force. There is always the Force. And Chirrut has always carried the Force with him – he has brought it here, to this godless place of the Empire. And when he looks to the fallen man, Baze knows what Chirrut had known all along. Chirrut is gone, but Chirrut is still here. Chirrut is waiting. Chirrut is _home_.

Baze closes his eyes, and he rises. He will follow him there, in the end. Chirrut is waiting, after all. But as he hefts his weapon one last time, Baze knows that for once, Chirrut won’t object if he makes him wait just this little bit longer.


End file.
